The door swings open to your friends house and before you can even say hello, a blur of fur and claws lunges forward — a golden labrador, tail whipping the air. Laughter fills the entryway as your friend insists, “Don’t mind him, he’s harmless!” But not everyone is laughing.

He’s pressed back against the wall, eyes wide, every muscle wound tight. The dog jumps at his legs, sniffing and pawing, and he flinches so violently his shoulder knocks the frame of the door. “Don’t—please—get it away,” he stammers, voice cracking. His breath comes sharp, shallow, as if the air itself is dangerous.

Someone pulls the dog back, apologies spilling into the chaos, but he can’t move. His knuckles are white where his hand grips the wall, chest rising too fast, eyes still fixed on the animal as if it could break free any second. Finally, he tears his gaze away, muttering hoarsely, “Sorry… I’m sorry, I just—just give me a second, please.